Since I was really little, I've loved the fact that things have a history and a story. I've loved the way things can be artifacts for memories; they can transport us back to pieces of our story. When I drink coffee out of my Nana's cow mug, all of a sudden I'm six and in her kitchen beside her while she cooks. I can see her walk into the room; I can remember her smell. When I reread Will's first letters to me (the ones he wrote me when we just 'liked' each other) I have butterflies back to that summer. This isn't a new concept- we all have a keepsake box full of things we don't necessarily know what to do with but also would never throw away, birthday cards, rocks, wrappers, a couple photos. But I think spaces are most beautiful when that's the stuff that fills our homes. This year we moved into a little Dallas duplex and it's the first place that has felt like home in years. Shopping at thrift stores and estate sales is something seen as a consolation experience for some people. For me it's a treasure hunt of story artifacts. The craigslist table with the chip on the corner is beautiful because it has served many before me. Imperfection is beautiful.
This is why I loved fibers so much. I got to use my hands to make something tangible with a use and a story. I got to weave my own story into each row on my loom. Things with purpose and meaning. Don't get me wrong, I enjoy buying new, high quality things and would totally pass up three cheaply made shirts to save up for that one great pair of jeans at Madewell (if you haven't tried a pair of their unicorn infused denim, stop reading now and go to your closest franchise).
So here's the mantra I'm freeing myself to live into: live around the artifacts that remind you of your story.